


always, onward

by pomme (manta)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon, but it isn't completely slice of life, can i describe a genre as "it happened", i would say this is slice of life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2019-01-29 22:54:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12640971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manta/pseuds/pomme
Summary: Kita creates, from the ground up.





	always, onward

**Author's Note:**

  * For [themorninglark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/themorninglark/gifts).



> a birthday gift for lark!!! (belated because im a poop)
> 
> this is but a humble offering for an amazing writer and friend! thank you for being you and i'm glad we are pals <3

 

He walks on a path of carefully laid cobblestones.

It leads him through a long, straight street, where the sunlight hits the storefronts at just the right angle and the trees stand tall and well spaced. How long he takes to pass through the town could have taken a blink of an eye, or an eternity, or perhaps eighteen years.

Regardless, what are gleaming, bright buildings are replaced by trees and the cobblestone path turns into a winding dirt trail that is lined by dense forest.

He goes on, undeterred, knowing that he'll go where he needs to go.

 

* * *

 

"Thank you," he says, accepting the receipt and the bottle of Pocari Sweat the new Family Mart clerk hands back to him.

"Sure. Are you  _positive_ you don't want another bottle? It's buy one, get one free."

"I'm sure."

"The second bottle doesn't have to be the same drink, you know." The clerk points at the promotional flier, placed under the clear plastic at the counter. "See, there's this yogurt drink. Or maybe you know someone who enjoys oolong tea? This brand's pretty popular."

He thinks of who's waiting for him to come home, and pauses.

 

* * *

 

When he rounds the corner, it looms before him—full, square, geometrically sound.

To enter through the double, white painted doors, he must pass the garden first. Like the building, it blooms, of hydrangeas in a gradual gradient spanning from blue to red.

He didn't create this palace with the intent of creating one. It is simply the result of his habit of shaping, brick by stubborn brick.

The garden, too, is a result of steady watering, of turning plants away or toward the sun, of adjusting the soil's nutrients and acidity as needed—repetitions that become grooves in the soil, and don't require additional thought. Sometimes foxes wander through, and he leaves them be.

Contrary to its grand exterior, the grounds are not managed by a crew of staff. The primary caretaker is him, and has only been him.

And he knows that the bigger a creation he makes, the more responsibility he takes for it.

 

* * *

 

"Thank you."

"Sure." The clerk hesitates, then asks, "You play on the volleyball team, right? I've seen you pass by with a bunch of people."

He wouldn't call it playing volleyball so much as _observing_ volleyball from the bench. But that's a technicality, so he merely replies with a, "Yes," not picking up his Pocari Sweat until the clerk gives him his change and receipt.

Alan would just chug the entire bottle, right then and there. But he clutches it tightly, unopened, the palm of his hand running cool with moisture.

 

* * *

 

His grandmother taught him the importance of doing tasks with a single-minded focus.

"Be present, Shinsuke-kun," she tells him, "whether you're giving a commencement speech as the prime minister, watching the grass grow, or plunging a toilet."

So he comes home, shivering from the cold, and sits down to a hot meal. He tells her more about the new members—four of them, two of them twins. All promising, all settling in well, but also all troublesome.

"And what will you do about these troublesome new members?" She already knows the sort of reply he'll give; she wants to hear him say it.

"Build them up," he answers. "And look after them, in the ways I can."

 

* * *

 

The entranceway is airy and spacious, and the rooms are countless. They might seem to be lacking in purpose to an outsider; some are furnished with four beds and no desks, some are neatly filled with odds and ends and no furniture. Still more remain unassembled in their crates, waiting to be put together into inhabitable forms.

But he doesn't need to know the significance behind each experience.

It is already enough that the doors are unlocked and waiting. They connect to halls seemingly infinite, with what lies ahead only apparent if he walks to their very ends.

 

* * *

 

The clerk waits expectantly as he pulls out his canvas bag, the stock blue one he purchased a few years ago, and begins loading items into it: a bottle of Calpis, a heated bowl of congee, some fruit.

"Someone else on the team is sick?"

"Yeah, our setter caught a cold. Most likely from his brother."

"Hm, the weather's in a transition period, isn't it?"

"It is. Please take care of yourself."

The clerk blinks, then laughs. "Why do I feel younger all of a sudden? You should take care of yourself, too."

"I will. Thank you." He takes the proffered bag along with the receipt, not missing how the clerk's eyes widen at the shirt draped over his arm—black, underlined, emblazoned with a white "1". 

"Thank you!" the clerks calls, and adds, when he's already on his way out, "Congratulations, captain!"

He raises a hand in acknowledgement.

He manages to make it to the street corner before the emotions wash over him again, just as the traffic light turns green.

 

* * *

 

He's kneeling next to a raised bed of soil, his knees muddied with both fresh and old dirt. 

He appraises the earth, raises the garden trowel and makes a neat hole, into which he drops a single seed. Dusting off his legs and gloves, he stands up just in time to watch a fox scamper back into the bushes.

He rises onto his toes to stretch. The sun filters through the cracks in his fingers, and he gives himself a moment to look straight ahead, at what little he can see beyond it.

And then, with the job done, he begins the considerable walk back to the palace he built with his own two hands.

 

**Author's Note:**

> some background info on this fic:
> 
> in the conversation with his grandmother, the first draft of kita's response on what he'd do with the new first years was, "watch over them". at first i thought it a good line that refers to his awareness of being watched. but i scrapped it in the end, because i decided it wasn't a fitting answer; kita may not believe in deities, but such a response wouldn't have gone down well with his grandmother, who does. 
> 
> as for the fic's concept: kita's line in the manga about how he is made of everyday things stayed with me. similar to how he's formed who he is through establishing habits, i was reminded of how houses are made, by bringing everything together piece by piece. that made me think of mind palaces and what sort of a mind palace kita would have, which then turned into the more figurative scenes. in the literal scenes, i focused on establishing kita's sense of doing things because they should be done as well as his firm character. as a result, the scenes focus on a repetition of sorts and creating rapport with others simply through being who he is.


End file.
